The Rebellion of Jane Clarke

by Sally Gunning

  The man kept on. Like Knox, he was gripping a young woman by the elbow, attempting to shepherd her through the crowd. Jane shook free of Knox and took a pair of skips ahead of him. “Nate!”

  The man turned around. Yes, Nate. He bent to speak to the woman. He turned again. He stood and waited for them to catch him up. “Jane.”

  “This is Mr. Knox,” Jane said. “My brother, Mr. Clarke.”

  Nate said, “Hello, Mr. Knox.”

  Knox said, “Clarke! Delightful to see you again. Fine show, was it not?”

  Nate made no answer. He was busy looking at the woman beside him, as was Jane. She was white-skinned and dark-eyed, her hair the blue-black color of a crow’s wing; she wore the edgy thinness that came from either illness or nerves. She tipped her head down and left it there, leaving Jane little to examine further but the scarlike part of her hair. There Nate seemed to remember Jane. “Please allow me to introduce Miss Linnet,” he said. “My sister, Miss Clarke. And Mr. Knox.”

  Miss Linnet raised her head. She gave a quarter smile and tugged almost indiscernibly on Nate’s arm. If Nate gave any resistance it was indiscernible to Jane; if he had recovered from his outburst over the soldier that too was indiscernible. Nate and Miss Linnet moved on.

  THAT EVENING, AS AUNT Gill was going through her boiled rice a grain at a time, Jane heard a cry out on King Street that might have shaken the lion and unicorn on top of the Town House to the ground. Prince was again nowhere to be seen; Martha was shifting a heavy kettle; it was left to Jane to go to the parlor window to survey the scene. When she saw what appeared to be a parade going by on King Street she ignored Aunt Gill’s yelping from behind and stepped out the door. She recognized them at once: the Sons of Liberty, passing in a great procession of carriages, huzzahed through the street by a cheering crowd, the usual swarm of boy-men running alongside. The last carriage in the line carried Otis, and the frenzy rose there to its highest pitch before it died.

  THAT NIGHT JANE BEGAN a new letter to Bethiah, including the events of earlier in the day, spending a fair amount of paper and ink on Miss Linnet, finishing with the parade. She concluded: Having seen something more of town today you might expect me to have more in the way of description, but one bit of it is like the other—shops, houses, taverns, crowds, noise. Always noise. Why is it we only listen to those who shout the loudest? Oh, how I miss the stillness, the quiet of Satucket!

  Chapter Fourteen

  AUNT GILL RETURNED Grandfather Freeman’s dinner invitation by inviting not only Jane’s grandfather to dine but the Adamses and Otises as well. When Martha heard the news the first crack in her features appeared. “You wish . . . you wish . . . the lot . . . that lot? To dine?”

  “Yes, Martha, the lot. To dine. How little work I’ve given you since Jane’s come to ease your load. ’Tis time to end this reclusive life. We shall have them all to dine, and any others that Jane should like to have along. What say you, Jane?”

  “Might we have my brother as well?” There Jane hesitated, pondering Miss Linnet. She could not say she’d warmed to this Miss Linnet—she could not forgive that tug on her brother’s arm, as if to draw him away from her, as if to hoard him from his own family. But she would not be her father. Let him choose as he would. “And might we include my brother’s friend, Miss Linnet?”

  “Of course we might have your brother and his friend. Any other?”

  Henry Knox, thought Jane. She should like to have Henry Knox to dine. She should like to listen to him conversing with her brother. Or should she?

  Martha decided it for her. “You’re at nine, Mistress, already overfull at table.”

  “Why, yes, yes we are,” Aunt Gill said. “We must have some other of your friends another time.”

  AS IT HAPPENED, MISS Linnet did not come, but the remaining eight did indeed fill the table, although one took up the most of it. Jane would have admitted to some curiosity about the infamous Mrs. Otis, but she hadn’t troubled herself pondering much on the wife of Adams; once the women arrived however, she found her eyes darting back and forth equally between the pair. Perhaps Mrs. Otis’s face and form could claim the beauty, but Mrs. Adams claimed the life, and by the time they’d been at table a half hour Jane gave Mrs. Adams all the liking as well.

  Mrs. Otis preceded all into the dining room, swirling the only proscribed silk in the room. At once Martha began setting down dishes, and soon the kind of feast Jane hadn’t seen at her aunt’s table since she’d come to town covered the cloth: onion soup, oysters, striped bass, roast goose, peas, boiled cabbage, and four pies—two meat and two fruit.

  Otis said, “Miss Gill, I must accuse you of traitorous sympathies. Clearly ’tis the king you’re accustomed to serve.”

  Aunt Gill pinked.

  Mrs. Otis said, “May I remind you, sir, you’re not at one of your cock parties above the tavern? You may leave off your talk of kings and parliaments here.”

  Aunt Gill said, “I do hope all subjects might be allowed at my table as long as the general rules of civility are observed.”

  Mrs. Otis said, “Ah, but my husband is ignorant of the rules of civility, Miss Gill.”

  “Come, Mr. Otis,” Mrs. Adams tried. “Let us prove the case for your civility. I think that the handsomest bass I’ve seen all season. Would you not agree?”

  Otis smiled. “I might top your compliment, madam, and add that I should like to vomit it.”

  “And there you have all my husband’s civility,” Mrs. Otis said.

  “Hold! Hold!” Otis cried. “You cut too soon! Such would be the finest compliment one might pay one’s host in ancient Rome—to vomit a meal to make room for more of it.”

  “I assure you, sir, no one here is the least interested in Rome.”

  A hush fell, into which Jane said, “I’m afraid I must confess a great interest in Rome.”

  Otis turned his eyes to her, the hurt and sorrow and loneliness so honestly exposed making her fear what her own eyes might show. “I have a fine book about Rome I’d be glad to lend you, Miss Clarke,” he said. “Their walls. You must make note of the walls. They march across a continent. You see how the walls explain so many things?”

  “Of course she doesn’t,” Mrs. Otis said.

  The table fell silent again, all eyes turning from the couple to the food. Compliments on the meal rose up from time to time, but no one seemed disappointed when the talk ran out along with the food and Mrs. Otis rose, announcing it was time for them to go.

  Otis stood without argument. He bowed to each in turn. “ ’Tis my honor, Miss Gill, to have been included in this evening. Mrs. Adams, it is ever a delight. Mr. Adams, Mr. Freeman, my young friend; we shall take our brandy another time.” At Jane he paused. “Miss Clarke, my kindred spirit.” He followed his wife from the room, leaving behind a silence as deep and gloomy as a cellar hole.

  John Adams and Jane’s grandfather made their efforts to resurrect the talk, but each failed in his turn; one by one the guests rose to go—the Adamses first, soon followed by Jane’s grandfather. Nate stayed behind long enough to settle Aunt Gill into her parlor chair, which pleased Jane, not only because of her aunt’s evident fatigue, but because it gave Jane and her brother a chance to speak alone, to perhaps repair what had gone before. She walked with Nate to the door.

  Jane said, “I’m sorry Miss Linnet was unable to come.”

  Nate opened the door. “I must get on.”

  Jane said, “You and Mrs. Otis in like rush! Must I suspect something there?”

  It worked. Nate smiled. “ ’Tis you and Otis are the ‘kindred spirits.’ Perhaps ’tis you plans to push her out of the way.”

  “I should like to push her out of something.”

  Nate laughed, the old laugh, but even as he did so he stepped out the door. No, thought Jane. Not today. She followed him through. “I’ll walk with you a ways.”

  Nate made no objection, and Jane fell in by his side. He even continued the joke along. “In truth, Jane, if you pus
h out Mrs. Otis, perhaps I shall scoop her up—I shouldn’t have to beg father for every halfpenny, then.”

  “But what of Miss Linnet? Is she so easily cast aside?”

  Nate gave Jane a sharp look.

  Jane said, “I only mean to ask if your acquaintance is long.”

  “Not long.”

  “And then of course I must wonder next if Father would approve.”

  Nate stopped and turned on her. “You would ask if Father would approve?”

  Jane blinked. “Only to spare you what I suffer.”

  Nate studied her. “And who do you suffer over, Jane? Father tells me you spurn Mr. Paine, but not who for. It can’t be Knox—you can only have met Knox since you came to town. Not Woollen!”

  “Not anyone. ’Tis the principle of the thing.”

  “The principle of the thing! Ah, Jane. You’ll come over to us yet.”

  They moved ahead, the silence proving more comfortable than the words. After a short distance Jane tried again. “What news have you of our father’s qui tam?”

  “ ’Tis well in hand.”

  “I wonder too what you think of what else goes on.”

  Nate paused. “If you mean the horse I think it beneath a worm.”

  “Beneath our father, then?”

  Nate said nothing.

  “He did speak to the deacon about Winslow’s blaspheming. ’Tis generally acknowledged he left the dam in ill repair. But the mill! Who could believe it of the mill? And the horse! Surely—”

  Jane stopped there; they had reached the corner of King Street; Nate had looked left and spied the sentry. “Here now!” he cried. “Why is that man gaping at you so?”

  “Perhaps because I’m the only person in all the town who will greet him with civility.”

  “Greet him with civility! Did I not tell you to keep away from him? You get on home.”

  Nate strode across the street. Jane stayed as she was. An urge to scoop up her own handful of mud from the gutter and plant it in the center of her brother’s back tickled at her fingers. You get on home. Instead she watched in disbelief as Nate walked up to the sentry and tapped the heel of his hand against the soldier’s chest—once, twice, hard enough to cause the soldier to stagger backward. Jane couldn’t hear what her brother said to the man, but it caused him to redden from collar to brow. Sure that he would strike out at her brother she took a step forward, but the sentry didn’t move.

  THAT NIGHT THE SENTRY’S red face and hot gaze appeared against Jane’s eyelids as she prepared for sleep—no surprise then that sleep didn’t come. She got out of bed and looked out the window at the narrow, crowded buildings cleansed by moon-wash. She looked up at the sky, all but the familiar triangle formed by the three brightest stars either bleached out by the moon or blocked out by the roofline. She thought of her brother and wondered if he slept, or if he looked out on another street nearby, still raging at the sentry. Or did he stand at his window and think of Miss Linnet? She thought of Otis and his wife and whether on that particular night they slept together or apart; she thought of Henry Knox and the feel of his arm and the look on his face when he talked of the traitors’ disemboweling; she thought of Phinnie Paine and the night on the bed when she’d felt him livening against her; she thought—inexplicably—of Harry Nye.

  At the thought of Nye Jane pulled herself away from the window, picked up her shawl, and headed below-stairs after . . . something. Knox’s Crusoe. Martha’s maple butter. Aunt Gill’s brandy. At the landing she looked in at Aunt Gill to make sure she slept sound, but the moon had bleached her skin as it had bleached the stars, almost to the gray of death, and Jane felt the old bubble rise up in her chest. She crept closer until she could hear the throaty breathing and turned for the door in relief, but there she turned back again. Aunt Gill was unused to company; Jane had seen the ill effect on her twice now and must remember what she’d seen. She must stand on watch for it; she must stand on watch against Prince and Martha and the advantage they might take—perhaps already took; she must take better care of this old woman in her charge. That much resolved, Jane turned to go again but found herself lingering yet at the door. The urge to touch that gray cheek, to smooth the thinned hair on the pillow, to pull the disordered sheet over the exposed shoulder was so strong it took her unaware. How had such strong affection grown up in her? Was it the effect of the night, the effect of her carnal thoughts, the longing to connect by the flesh to any human being at all, even if the flesh was old and worn?

  Jane left the room and climbed up, not down, the stairs. Whatever craving had drawn Jane below had left her. She returned to her room and settled herself at her table with her writing tools. She opened her letter book and began a letter to Bethiah which she didn’t owe. When she was through she copied it over and lifted the pen to sign her name, but found herself writing one more line: I wonder if you hear or see anything of Phinnie Paine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ON JANE’S NEXT TRIP to Wharton & Bowes she saw a new kind of ghost. A couple came walking her way arm in arm, deeply engaged in the kind of animated chat that spoke of a first or second outing. By no stretch could the man in the limp waistcoat be Phinnie, but the woman was Jane—the winter-grass hair, the posture so conscious of the man’s eyes, the suggestion of new possibilities about the mouth countered by the pucker of doubt between the brows. Jane could read the girl’s thoughts as if she were reading the Wharton & Bowes sign: Could it be right to feel so happy just because she was being touched by this man? So Jane must have looked on her first walk with Phinnie along the millstream.

  The couple passed by, oblivious to Jane; she heard none of their words, but that didn’t matter—no doubt she remembered only half of what had been spoken on that first walk with Phinnie Paine. The feeling had been all, and out of that feeling had grown the boldness to contemplate leaving what she knew for what she didn’t know, to contemplate marriage to Phinnie Paine. Where had such audacity come from? No doubt some of it had spilled over from Phinnie’s abundance, but not all. Not all. And now where had it gone?

  When Jane walked into Wharton & Bowes, Henry Knox was much engaged with one of the British officers and she slipped unnoticed between the shelves. She was surprised to hear Knox and the officer going back and forth in utter politeness, even perhaps liking; she doubted Knox could give off so hearty a laugh out of pretense alone. Jane poked among the books until she must have made a noise loud enough to be heard—Knox came bounding into her aisle and cried, “Miss Clarke! When did you come in?”

  The officer came up behind. He was near forty, with a pocked face that she almost didn’t notice because of the perception in the eyes; as if in proof of it he gave her the kind of close-mouthed smile that promised either more or less, depending on her whim. Knox said, “Miss Clarke, may I present Captain Preston to you. You will observe, Captain, that I present you and yet keep you behind. I know the way you have with the young women in this town.”

  “I protest, sir. As would my wife. How do you do, Miss Clarke?” Preston bowed.

  Jane made her return.

  Preston said, “I suspect ’tis Mr. Knox you must beware of, Miss Clarke—I note a certain light in his eye that’s new in your presence. But what have you there? Ah! The Nun!”

  Knox reached over and removed the book from her hands. “She disliked it. I offered Crusoe in exchange.”

  “Ah, Crusoe. And do you find him a better trade?”

  “I prefer to reserve judgment till the end.”

  “A most sensible course, Miss Clarke. Knox, you must bring her to our play-reading. Now I must be off. My pleasure, Miss Clarke. And I do hope to see you on Tuesday.”

  The soldier departed. As Jane looked after him something of her wonder must have shown, for Knox said, “Do you see? You look after him just as all the girls do, pocked face and all! I would know what it is in him that draws you so.”

  “My intense curiosity at encountering a gentleman in a red coat, having been told by the papers that no
such creature lived.”

  “So you would call him a gentleman? Well let me shock you by telling you I would call him one too. And I shall miss his company once he departs this town, but depart it he must do, along with all his other red-coated friends, gentlemen or no.” Knox peered at Jane for a time. “I wonder, Miss Clarke, if it would also shock you were I to take up the captain’s suggestion and invite you to the play-reading Tuesday next?”

  “Such a thing must be decided by my aunt, as I attend her in the evenings.”

  “Well then, what would you say if some evening soon I paid a call and begged for your release?”

  Jane’s first thought was of her father, and what he would say to the rebel Henry Knox paying a call on his daughter. Her second thought was that her father was at home at Satucket and she was away at Boston, and she could do as she liked. Her third thought was the same one over again, only lightened by something like wonder. She could do as she liked.

  “I’m sure my aunt would be pleased to receive a call from so ardent a patriot,” she answered. She thought it a clever reply, so clever it reminded her of Phinnie, which immediately made it less clever by half, if not all.

  AS JANE APPROACHED HER own corner, she found Hugh White again at the box and a pair of young boys, no older than six or seven, accosting him with the same old words: bloody-back, lobster-back, bloody bitch, round and round. Jane didn’t know what it was that set her loose—perhaps the memory of her brother abusing the poor man, perhaps the ages of the boys and the sense that it would go on generation upon generation without end, just like the Winslow-Clarke feud. She picked up her step and charged toward the boys, clapping her hands. “Get along now! The pair of you! Get home! Go!”

  The boys ran. From all the way across the street Jane could see the sentry’s smile; it was a thing one never saw on a sentry’s face, and that realization enraged her as well. She crossed the street to him and said loudly, “Good-day to you, Mr. White.”